


You Let Me Desecrate You

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 06:25:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moran's life may no longer be his own to endanger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Let Me Desecrate You

When the professor enters the room, Moran is sprawled across the sofa, barefoot but still in his overcoat. There is a button torn off his waistcoat; his tie is askew; there is blood on the back of his right hand - probably not his; a red-brown stain of it on his shirt cuff. He holds a tumbler in one hand; a crystal decanter in the other, and as Moriarty watches he splashes whisky into the glass. Moriarty says nothing. He merely quietly retrieves the colonel’s hat from where he’s tossed it over a bronze bust and sets it carefully on the hat stand. He then moves, still silently, but swiftly, to snatch the tumbler from Moran’s hand before it reaches his lips, and to take the decanter from where it rests upon Moran's chest. He drinks the whisky himself, before setting down the glass. He retrieves the stopper from the floor and drops it back in the top with a glassy _chink_ and places the decanter down on the sideboard.

   “I was gonna drink that,” Moran snarls.

   “And now you are not. Temperance is a virtue, after all.”

   “I am not feeling especially bleeding temperate right now, thank you very much.” Moran tries to get up, stumbles, then manages it by digging his fingers tightly into the arm of the sofa to steady himself.

   “ _No_ ,” Moriarty says, as Moran reaches for the decanter once again. It is little more than a whisper, but it cuts the air.

   Moran freezes.

   “It doesn’t help,” Moriarty tells him, stepping over towards the colonel. “Believe me, my dear Moran, it will only do more harm than good. Arms up.”

   “Feels like it would help.” Moran lifts his arms so that Moriarty can draw the overcoat off him.

   “You have been in a fight.” Coat removed, Moriarty now takes Moran’s bloodied hand in his, flexing his fingers to check for signs of damage.

   “However did you deduce that?” Moran sneers, flinching at the touch.

   “Over what?” Moriarty asks, pointedly ignoring Moran’s sarcasm.

   “Nothing.” Moran, tilting his chin, looks away.

   “Sebastian.” The name carries a warning; the vaguest hint of a threat, despite the tenderness of the tone, and though Moriarty continues to clasp Moran’s right hand his own right hand moves to cup Moran’s cheek, drawing his gaze back. “Tell me.”

   “Bastard called me an invert.”

   “Well, you are.”

   “Doesn’t mean I want it bloody advertising to the world, does it?” Moran snaps. He thinks if he is destined for gaol some day he should at least be sent there for something much more heinous than his sexual proclivities. “ _He_ was the one making advances anyway, the old buck fitch. Like I’d choose to fuck someone like him.”

   “This would hardly be sufficient to drive you to drink though,” Moriarty remarks. His gaze never leaves Moran’s face, and Moran can’t bring himself to look away; even when he’s standing with his head bowed now, he can’t quite tear his gaze off the professor’s. “A remark about your father,” Moriarty says. “ _That_ might be sufficient. Something like, say, ‘your father would be _so_ proud of you’.”

   “How do you bloody do that?” Moran cries, now dragging himself free from the professor’s hold. He waves an accusatory finger in Moriarty’s direction, while Moriarty smiles at him. “How do you always know? Am I allowed not a scrap of privacy around you?”

   “I am merely concerned,” Moriarty remarks calmly.

   “Yeah,” Moran says sullenly. “Concerned I won’t be able to pull the trigger if I’ve gone and busted up my hand. Well it’s fine, Professor, see?” He waves his now-clenched fist in Moriarty’s face – a little too close for the professor’s liking.

   Moriarty’s hand snaps up, lightning-quick, and catches Moran’s wrist. With the slightest shift of his body; the merest twist that sends an electric jolt of pain up Moran’s arm, the colonel finds himself flipped around and pinned face down against the sofa with one of Moriarty’s knees pressed to the small of his back. It happens so fast he can’t even begin to unravel how the professor did it. Instinctively he struggles, but that only succeeds in sending another jolt of pain through his arm.

   “Easy, easy,” Moriarty says, keeping hold of Moran’s right wrist, while he gently strokes the back of Moran’s neck with the first two fingers of his left hand. Moran goes very, very still then, like a trapped animal feigning death. “Sebastian, I won’t hurt you. You are, however, a danger to yourself when you are in one of these moods.”

_‘It’s my life to endanger,’_ Moran wants to say, but doesn’t; he bites it back, not sure whether he does so because it might enrage the professor or merely because it’s no longer true. Moriarty offered him money – a _lot_ of money – to do his bidding without question. That was back before Moran really knew anything about the professor; back before they’d ever shared certain looks; shared a bed; before they’d kissed; before Moran had let Moriarty inside him. Even then though, Moran had the uncomfortable feeling in his gut that he was selling his soul to the professor.

   “Let me up,” is all he does say.

   “Will you behave now?” the professor asks, kindly.

   As if Moran is a schoolboy again, and he remembers too well his hated childhood; his school days with older boys with plummy accents picking on him; shoving him about; making advances he’d had to even then deflect with his fists and feet. Moran learned how to fight – and fight dirty – at a young age. He’d run away from school too many times to count, only to be dragged back every time and punished for his rebelliousness. Now he wouldn’t be surprised at all if the professor was to pull out a ruler or cane and give him a smack with it, or perhaps he keeps a hunting crop somewhere just for that purpose, like Moran’s father used to. He could tolerate that though. He can stand pain. It’s when Moriarty is being kind; tender; stroking him gently; trying to soothe away his fears and break through the very last barriers the colonel maintains inside himself that Moran is _really_ afraid.

   “Let me up.”

   “If you promise to behave.”

    Moran manages to twist his head around to shoot a venomous glare at Moriarty, but he’d probably have more success in trying to bring down a tiger with a pea-shooter than intimidate the professor. “Fine, _sir_ ,” he says. “I solemnly promise I shall now be a good little boy.”

   “Good.” The pressure against his back; the hold on his wrist is abruptly removed.

   Moran shifts around and sits on the sofa, rubbing thoughtfully at his wrist. “You’re a queer old cove, Professor.”

   “I am merely looking out for your welfare, Sebastian.”

   “Or protecting your assets.” Moran tracks Moriarty’s movements about the room, watching him begin to strip.

   “Can I not do both?” the professor remarks, discarding frock coat and cravat, carefully placing them down. He unbuttons his collar and removes his waistcoat next, and then moves to sit before the fire, upon the tiger-skin rug (and Moran knew that tiger well – a man-eater from India, feared and hated; cunning too; she’d been wary of the trap, but he’d got her in the end). The colonel _thinks_ he sees Moriarty remove something from his coat pocket before he moves towards the fire, but he isn’t sure. Moriarty is clever with all that sleight of hand malarkey. “If you would be so good as to come and sit beside me,” he says, patting the rug.

   Moran narrows his eyes, trying to work out just what the professor wants. He has his suspicions and certainly when Moriarty takes it into his head to start being domineering a certain portion of Moran’s anatomy starts to takes a keen interest in the proceedings. He is not exactly adverse to the idea of things moving in that direction now, if indeed that is what the professor has in mind. He obeys though without figuring it out and it’s not as if Moran’s desires are relevant here anyway. They do what the professor wants; Moriarty would no more let him choose what to do than most men would allow their mistresses to dictate their actions.

   “Closer,” Moriarty says, and Moran has to shuffle even closer. “That’s better.” Moriarty squeezes his knee gently and gives him a look that Moran might almost be tempted to label _fond_ , if he didn’t know the professor as well as he does. “Sebastian, I’d like you to come to Germany with me.”

   “For business or pleasure?” Moran asks, unable to keep the slightly scathing remark from tripping off his tongue. He knows though he isn’t being given a choice. He could refuse to go and Moriarty would accept it, but it would put a black mark on Moran’s very soul; a stain he could never obscure from the professor’s searing gaze. They both know however that Moran will not refuse. Any pretence at refusal is just a game they play – a game of Moriarty’s creation, and one which he alone has written the rule-book on. Still, Sebastian Moran may be somewhat easy to control if one knows how to press the right buttons but what he is not is easily cowed, and he _is_ a killer. He’s lain beside Moriarty some nights, rigid and awake while Moriarty sleeps the easy sleep of a man secure in his convictions. Though there’s a part of Moran that thinks even asleep the professor would still anticipate, somehow, every one of his actions and even thoughts, he _could_ have killed the professor then. Moriarty knows that Moran is a very dangerous man indeed and yet he has still let him close – closer than anyone else.

   To the best of Moran’s knowledge, Moriarty takes no other lovers. There are no casual flings of the kind Moran still engages in; no mistresses or whores; no dalliances with the students, many of whom idolise him; no brief fucks with strangers in dark alleys and seedy clubs. When it comes to such intimacy, there is only Moran. Maybe all that means is that Moriarty is a mistrustful git who also has more qualms than Moran about fathering bastard children or catching something nasty, and it’s probably true that telling Moran to get on his knees and use his mouth is less effort than relieving himself, which hardly means that he actually values Moran. Still, Moran would like to think though that Moriarty does have some respect for him – not as merely a sharpshooter but as a whole person.

   “Predominantly business,” Moriarty replies, “but I see no reason why we cannot indulge in a little of the other also.”

   “I see.”

   “Is this acceptance?”

   “I take it you have work for me other than being your personal secretary?”

   “Perhaps, yes.”

   Moran shrugs and stretches his hands out towards the fire, warming them. His right hand aches now, he notices, and he really does hope he’s not done it some serious damage. “I suppose I have nothing better to do.”

   “I am glad.” Moriarty shifts his arm now and sets something down before the fire.

   Moran stares at it. A blue glass bottle, stoppered with cork. The firelight flickers through it, tinted cold by the colour of the glass.

   “I think that you are more than amenable to this,” Moriarty says, without looking at him. Moran doesn’t deny this. “Please stand up.” Moran does, helped a little by Moriarty’s hand upon his arm to steady him. “Now strip.” Only now does Moriarty look at Moran, raising an eyebrow at him, daring him to refuse. No, not a dare – it’s an invitation.

   “Professor, I don’t-”

  “Strip.” Moriarty grins. “Please.” It’s the second word, not the first command, that makes it more dangerous; more deadly. Moriarty’s smile is very nearly reptilian, and Moran is suddenly very _very_ turned on.

   “Why am I always the one going round bloody bare-arsed?” he grumbles as he unbuttons his shirt, because such things are part of the game. Moriarty wants acquiescence but not absolute passivity.

   “Are you shy, Moran?”

   “Of course not.” Moran throws his shirt aside carelessly, knowing that it irks the professor immensely, but like he cares about neatly folding his garments up before proceeding to the fuck. “Just don’t get why you get me naked as the day I was born but you, _sir_ , seem much more reticent about getting your togs off. It ain’t practical.”

   “ _Is not_ practical, Moran,” Moriarty corrects him, and steeples his fingers as he regards Moran over his fingertips. “Really, anyone would think you were a very ill-bred creature indeed, and in answer to your query perhaps I simply think that your body is so very much more attractive than mine.”

   Moran snorts as he removes his trousers. “Yeah, and I’m the king of bloody Bohemia.”

   For that Moriarty slaps him smartly on the backside, which causes Moran to grimace. “Sometimes your mouth runs away with you,” Moriarty informs him. “Perhaps I should find a way to keep you quiet, hmm?”

   “If that was all you wanted you wouldn’t have brought that.” Moran indicates the vial of oil with a jerk of his thumb.

   “Indeed.” The professor’s eyes seem darker now; more sinister. “Lie down, Sebastian,” he says softly, but there’s a hard edge beneath; honed steel under that velvet.

   Moran drops to his knees; moves to crouch on all fours on the tiger-skin.

   “No,” Moriarty says.

   “No?” Moran is genuinely confused by this; more so when Moriarty doesn’t say anything else for a moment, just sits there watching him with half-hooded eyes. The colonel – though he certainly isn’t ashamed of his body – is suddenly uncomfortably aware of his own nakedness – and arousal - next to the professor in his shirtsleeves. Of course, that is very much the point of this and he knows it.

   “No,” Moriarty says at last. “I want you on your back, not on your front.”

   “On my…?”

   “You are neither deaf nor a fool, Moran; you heard and understood me. I want to see your face.”

   “But I… We’ve never…” Now Moran’s protests are not put on. For all the times Moriarty has taken him; dominated him, it has never been like this.

   “Yes, we have not done it this way before, but now we will, unless you wish to refuse. You _can_ refuse.”

   “I don’t want to refuse you, sir.” Moran cannot help that epithet slipping out, as the fear that’s building within him threatens to engulf him. He should say no; he should run; he _knows_ that this time the professor would not hold it against him – even though Moriarty would be disappointed, to have misjudged him so, he would not let it irrevocably alter things between them. Yet he wants to stay, even though the thought of having to look Moriarty in the eyes while they fuck is terrifying.

   “Good.” Moriarty guides him to lie back on the rug, then slips out of his own trousers. His shirt, however, remains on, only unbuttoned, the shirt-tails hanging down and largely obscuring his own immodesty while Moran lies stark naked before him. “Raise your legs; bend your knees,” he commands, and Moran obliges, without thought; without question, drawing his legs up and putting his feet flat against the rug.

   Moriarty half-lies, half-leans against Moran as he snags the bottle of oil, now warmed by the fire, and coats the fingers of his left hand with it. “You’re sure that you wish to play this game?” he asks, and his gaze meets Moran’s steadily.

   “Yes, Professor.” There’s no question of Moran ending this now; he’ll submit to it – to an act he so rarely submits to with any other man – because he’s ensnared in the professor’s web and he can’t escape; can’t look away; can’t fight this, and doesn’t want to. He feels sober now; he wishes he were still drunk, but his pulse has quickened; his heart is beating fast, and it’s not with fear but arousal. When the professor reaches around behind him and works one slick finger inside him, Moran’s fingers clench into the tiger-skin. When he adds a second finger, Moran digs his toes into the fur. “Professor,” he says, and clutches at Moriarty’s forearm – not to stop Moriarty but to steady himself.

   “Will you do as I tell you to do now?” Moriarty asks.

   “Yes, _sir_.”

   “You will not engage in petty fights?”

   “No, sir. Ah, oh god.” Moran cannot help but buck his hips slightly as Moriarty presses deeper inside him.

   “You will not recourse to the bottle again?”

   “No… sir.”

   “Good. You disappoint me when you do so, Moran, and I hate it when you disappoint me.”

   Moran tries to say something but nothing coherent comes out, only a low moan as Moriarty continues to work his oiled fingers inside Moran, stroking and stretching him.

   Just as Moran seems to be very nearly on the brink of release, Moriarty smartly withdraws his fingers, leaving the colonel panting and achingly aroused. “Please,” Moran says. He’s not beyond begging now – not from the professor. At this moment he’d crawl naked across broken glass to get to him if he had to; he’d probably perfectly willingly let Moriarty fuck him on said glass even.

   “All in good time.” Moriarty pours more oil onto his fingers; uses that to grease his own hard length. “Patience, my dear Sebastian, and stop that!” he reprimands sharply as Moran tries to reach down to touch himself. “If you intend to try to relieve yourself before I give you permission then I will have to start tying your wrists whenever we do this.” Then he smirks. “Though this notion intrigues me anyway.” He notes the flicker of fear that crosses Moran’s face at these words. Wild tigers do not react well to being bound as if they are no better than the lamb or goat that baits the trap, although Moriarty is of the opinion that with the right balance of firmness and tenderness over time they can all be taught to accept their captivity without losing their vital spark - even Moran. He would not choose to obliterate that spark from the colonel; not at all.

   “Please, Professor,” Moran says.

   “Shhh.” Moriarty runs his right hand, untainted by the oil, across Moran’s bearded cheek; his jaw; down his neck, then drops both hands down to press Moran’s thighs apart. He teases and taunts him with fingertips brushed lightly – maddeningly - up his inner thighs; back down again, before slipping one hand swiftly under Moran’s left thigh, drawing that leg up; bending it, draping it over his own hip. He presses close against Moran and the colonel lets out a sharp gasp as Moriarty enters him with steady pressure. Moran’s fingers clench harder into the rug (and fuck, that hurts his bruised hand, but he can’t help himself); into the short black and orange fur (and she was a rangy thing, that tiger; getting old; too weak to catch her usual prey; Moran could have sworn that she almost seemed relieved when he put the bullet in her heart).

   He probably looks like a whore, Moran thinks, his legs spread like a regular jezebel. One is bent rather awkwardly under Moriarty’s weight; the other is wrapped around Moriarty’s upper torso, subconsciously drawing him closer as Moriarty shoves into him. It’s rough, though Moran was expecting that – always expects nothing less - but Moriarty seems to know precisely how to balance pain and pleasure; to give Moran both without causing him harm. He’ll have the colonel feeling sore for a time, but not injured. The professor is the kind of man who if he ever breaks his toys is quite methodical and calculating about it, carefully dissecting them piece by piece. He is not one who would hurl them about in a temper and haphazardly smash them, and it would not profit him to break Moran now.

   “Oh god, Professor,” Moran says as Moriarty thrusts into him, slowly at first – too slowly for Moran’s liking, but he doesn’t get to set the pace – and then gradually building in speed and intensity.

   “Look at me,” Moriarty instructs, as Moran’s head rolls to the side and his eyes slip close. “Sebastian, look me in the eyes.”

    Moran does, though it’s hard to bear the professor’s scrutiny when he’s stark naked and flushed and having his body breached in a way the law insists is wrong, the church says is sinful and the medical profession thinks is a sign of madness. Maybe it is madness; rumours of insanity always clung to Moran like stale cigarette smoke even in Afghanistan; in India, and maybe no sane man would ever choose to become so intimately entangled with a man like Professor James Moriarty. Moriarty though can’t be entirely sane either if he’s prepared to allow Colonel Sebastian Moran so close too.

   It’s even harder to meet Moriarty’s gaze when the professor puts his hand between Moran’s spread thighs and strokes his prick, slow and steady. Moran finds himself simultaneously trying to buck up into the professor’s grasp and bear down on the hot, hard length inside him.

   “Look at me,” Moriarty commands again, so softly, and he’s grinning like the cat that got the canary, as if Moran is the most amusing thing on the earth right now (and perhaps he is; perhaps seeing the calculating colonel reduced to such wanton, helpless need _is_ hilarious), and Moran tries to keep his gaze on Moriarty’s but it’s so hard. He can barely think any more, much less try to focus.

   He clutches on to the professor, entirely lost as the heat builds and builds inside him, deep within him but spreading; becoming nearly unbearable until he can’t take it any more and he comes, shuddering and clinging even tighter to Moriarty as he calls out, _“James!”_

   He’s sure that Moriarty laughs at him when he does so. He doesn’t care.

   Moriarty’s climax takes longer; he’s far more composed about it when he does reach his release; when he thrusts sharply one last time into Moran and then stills, his mouth finding Moran’s shoulder, teeth digging into flesh at the moment of crisis. Moran, in his haze of sated lust, hardly notices, though he will certainly notice the teeth-marks; the blue-purple bruises later on; the mark of ownership on his skin.

   “Professor,” Moran says, and then… what? What else was he going to say? He knows really (has had it said to him often enough, in the afterglow of sex, by more people than he can bother to recall), but denies it; shoves it down – deep down – inside himself.

   “Shush now.” Moriarty draws out of him and gently lies Moran back on the rug. His white shirt is soaked with sweat but still he looks strangely composed. Moran is dishevelled by comparison, sweaty and with his sperm splashed over his stomach; some in the dark hair between his legs, while he can feel a little of Moriarty’s release trickling out of him. It’s a surprise when Moriarty leans over and picks up something to wipe Moran down with; it’s not a surprise to realise that it’s Moran’s own shirt.

   “Thank you for ruining my shirt, Professor; I am _so_ grateful,” Moran says scornfully, because he feels he should say _something_.

   Moriarty smirks and tosses aside the soiled shirt, and now – only now – does he kiss Moran. His fingers tangle hard in Moran’s hair, tugging painfully, as he half-draws Moran up off the rug so that their mouths meet. It’s a rough, bruising kiss; the kind that leaves Moran’s lips feeling as sore as the rest of him, but that’s better than gentleness. When at last Moriarty pulls away, Moran is left rather breathless.

   “Go and bathe now,” Moriarty instructs him. “You’re a mess.”

   Moran does as he’s told. He finds the bath already run for him when he goes to investigate – obviously the professor has timed everything perfectly, as usual, and instructed the servants what to do well before he initiated the sex. The water steams and it smells of something, some flowers or herbs. Moran screws up his face at this; he wishes the professor wouldn’t insist on these things for he has no desire to stink like some tart, even if Moriarty uses him like one occasionally.

   He hurts in many places now; his hand; the mark on his shoulder; his thigh muscles, from being forcefully held in an unusual position while he was taken, and he feels tender inside too. The hot water stings at first; makes his bruised body throb, but soon the heat seeps through him; the smell of whatever rubbish Moriarty has instructed to be added to the water seems almost soothing. He does not entirely let his guard down – he cannot. To waste time lounging about in a bath; to completely relax, it’s not in his nature to do these things. He’s always ready to fight; to run. He only allows the heat to take the edge off the ache inside him while he washes the signs of his and the professor’s sin from his body. After that he steps from the water, into a bathrobe that has been placed there for him. He’s washed clean then, but still marked, of course; still owned completely inside and out by Moriarty.

   Likely now he would not have it any other way.


End file.
